All over the map.

Some days are just weirder than others. My Saturdays are usually pretty lame. I do laundry. I run errands. Boring, weekend type stuff. But let me walk you through today, as it was one of my odder Saturdays in memory.

Woke up around 10:20. Had a good night's sleep after crashing at about 11:30pm. (I had just watched Okie Noodling and am really surprised I didn't have nightmares about obscenely-sized catfish.)
Showered. Read the paper.
Went to Lowe's and wandered around cluelessly for about 30 minutes. Bought a pack of wooden shims, a rubber mallet and some batteries.
Went to Ulta. Bought some hair care products and eyeshadow.
Went to Old Navy. Bought some jeans, black pants and some baby sunglasses. They're way cute.
Went to Whole Foods for a few things. It was day-before-Thanksgiving busy for some reason.
Came home.
Got ready and went to pick up Francesca. Went downtown to the Alamo Drafthouse to see a screening of Crispin Glover's self-produced/written/directed film called "What Is It?" preceded by a multi-media presentation/performance by Mr. Glover. THAT part of the evening was enjoyable. But the film was more disjointed and pretentious than any art school film piece you can even conjure up in you mind. I respect Crispin for his utter originality. There is simply no one else in Hollywood remotely like this guy. But it pisses me off when famous people feel like they can make utter crap and expect us to drool over it as "art" simply because they're known for being quirky, creative types. Now the multi-media stuff featuring his artwork/books that he did was pretty phenomenal. But the film was just awful. All of the cast members (except for Crispin) were handicapped. Most of them had Down's syndrome, but there was also a man with severe cerebral palsy, and a person (I was unsure whether it was a man or a woman) who was horribly disfigured AND mentally handicapped. During the film, we were treated to watching a man and woman, both with Down's, having sex; the man with CP being jacked off by a nude woman in a monkey mask while lying in a large clam shell; numerous snails being killed by having salt poured on them and/or by having their shells smashed to bits; a "harem" scene with Crispin and his Down's-afflicted concubines; swastikas; images of Shirley Temple in S&M gear with a riding crop shoved up her cooch; a guy dressed as a minstrel performer, injecting himself with some substance so that he could become an invertebrate; a horribly racist country and western song; and much, much more. There is no identifiable reason for this film's existence. And knowing how creative and interesting Crispin is, it was simply a disappointment. Afterward, Francesca and I stood in line for about an hour so she could get his autograph and have her photo made with him. I hung back and didn't say anything to him, but he introduced himself to me. He seems quite nice and is strangely handsome with all of his angularity and 20s-era fashion sense. I had a nice time, but the hour that the film was shown was pretty uncomfortable. In fact, some of the most entertaining stuff we saw while we were at the Alamo were the midnight movie patrons who were filing past those of us in the autograph line. They were there to see "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"which has apparently got a "Rocky Horror-esque" midnight movie cult thing happening. And judging by the fans who were there tonight, heavy-set, fashion-challenged, glasses-wearing women in their 30s are WAY into it.

After the Alamo, we went to Donn's Depot to hook up with some of Francesca's friends. It was freakin' packed! It's usually crowded on Saturdays, with the over 55 year old set getting gussied up and coming out to cut a rug with one another. But tonight, the rodeo's in town, and there had been some sort of gala, and folks from that were flowing into Donn's. In fact, Donn himself was at the front door, seeing to it that the fire code wasn't broken due to over occupancy. It was nuts. Two out. Two in. We waited in line for about 15 minutes. And then it was utter pandemonium when we got in there. More cowboy hats than I care to mention, and a hefty, old white dude (think Wilford Brimley) singing Tom Jones. There were some FUCKED up folks in that bar. And we got to see some hiLARious moves being performed on the dance floor, in the aisles, in front of the bathroom--pretty much anywhere there were more than 6 square inches of personal space, somebody was dancing. The people watching alone was well worth the $5 cover.
Left there. Drove home. Had to slam on my breaks on my street to avoid squashing the biggest, slowest opossum ever.

So that was Saturday. Now it's 2:00am, and time for bed. I am praying to GOD that none of the disturbing images from "What Is This?" find their way into my dreams tonight. Ewwww...